Resolution52 – Brian Utley

I’m really tired but also a little anxious and quite a bit relieved. Reggie and Bob weren’t doing it for me either. A commenter posited that it was so hard to find a book because #52 was supposed to mean something more, something to speak for the previous 51 books, to represent. And yes, I agree. I couldn’t choose a book that seemed appropriate for the final book.

I was avoiding reading In Our Strange Gardens because of it’s length. It’s only 80 pages when translated from French. How could I end the resolution with an 80 page book? But all day today I was telling myself that the resolution was over, that 51 had to be where it ended. I even got into bed telling myself it was over, you can relax now, it’s done and 51 is just fine. I hadn’t completed a book in almost a month.

Then I looked over at the book that my sister let me borrow and I just started reading. She really beamed up when she loaned it to me, and I still hear those words that I so often say to other people, “I can’t tell you why I loved it, I just did”. I guess that stuck with me.

So, resigned to failure I started reading the book and a few hours later I had it finished, and yes, it is a wonderful book. So simple and true, and much more full of life than other books with a higher page count with more to say that is quickly forgotten. But not here, not with these characters and these sacrifices and how the story is told, with the end at the beginning, the beginning in the middle, and the end back where you started the whole thing. And through this whole circuitous read you are totally engaged, and time fades away, and before I knew it, I had my 52 books.

Book Thoughts

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Book Thoughts

I don’t have a problem. That’s the first thing that I want to make clear. The problem that I’m recognizing but at the same time adamantly denying is that I have a problem completing books. It’s a fact that if you look at my reading history on Goodreads, a place that I unabashedly record my quote/unquote “problem” (I know what I just did was redundant), you will see that I am “Currently Reading” 33 books. The most recent addition to this category is David Foster Wallace’s “A Supposedly Funny Thing I’ll Never Do Again”, which I entered into the system that is Goodreads this evening. The oldest book in that list is “A People’s History of The United States” that I started reading on January 12, 2009. For those unfamiliar with my history, which is ALL of you, that is a lifetime ago. Regardless, it is true that I’m still reading that book. And 32 others.

I really am. Some might say that I have a mood disorder. And those “some” might perhaps be my “doctors”.  But still they are merely opinions. It is true that my attention often goes to the highest bidder, and the bidders change daily and the going rate for my attention differs not only in whatever is analogous to a monetary value, but also by subject matter, or whatever is appealing-at-the-moment.  So right now, according to my bookshelf and the seemingly random placement of the bookmarks in each of those books, I think that instead of my interests growing and fading like the sun between sunrise and sunset, my interests are expanding and I’m currently basking in the perpetual sunlight of 33 works of creative thought in subjects ranging from the spiritual, historical, scientific, fictional, and instructional. Products of the finest minds in their respective fields, and each night I get to choose.

So what’s the problem? There is none, and I’ll prove it to you if you buy me dinner, or if you want the long, more entertaining version, a book. During this time I’ve racked up this huge list of books that haven’t been finished, a situation that many who are on the outside would consider a microcosm of my life in general.  But those people would fail to recognize, and perhaps join the ranks of the growing misinformed, that during the time of 33 uncompleted books that I purchased and began reading but haven’t finished as of today, that there was something else happening. That “something” was perhaps less noticeable, and less obvious. And while even more of these people might see that list of 33 books that I’ve started as evidence of someone with a distracted or uncommitted  mind, or a person that quickly acquires and loses interests quicker than most, they would overlook the 117 books that were started and completed in that same timespan.  117 books that held my interest, that kept me captivated, and several of those that I was saddened by the end, by the turn of the last page and that the book couldn’t go on forever. Everything comes to an end, as many things have, but my interests won’t, my projects won’t, and my list of books that I’m currently reading, much like the parts of my life that I’ve failed, will pale in comparison to the list of books I’ve completed, and the list of things in my life in which I’ve found success.

2012, Book Thoughts, Brian Utley

  Let me first say, Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief, is a beautifully written masterpiece. I give it ten out of five stars, and if I was the President of The World, I would encourage it to be required reading for the masses. But, since I do not hold such a high level of authority, I will humbly encourage blog readers far and wide to buy this book, because, yes, you are going to want your own copy (or, like me, “borrow” it from your boyfriend and “forget” to give it back).  That said, indulge me while I attempt to tell you what this book meant to me.

The story follows the life of Leisel Meminger, a German girl in Nazi Germany, told from the perspective of Death, aka, the Grim Reaper. Death, despite his eternal devotion, struggles with a human-like frustration with his day job. He fights to remain emotionally distant from a people and world that can often be heartbreaking, and the fact that, God, his boss, continually gives no explanation nor reassurance for the cruelty of life and the suffering of those he ferrys to the other side.

In a time of war, where Death’s backbreaking work of carrying souls to the other side endlessly mounts, he finds distraction in the colors of the sky to carry on his work unimpeded by the sorrows and bitterness that plague the souls of war and death. Although his efforts to distance himself from his “work” are usually met with success, a handful of events in the life of Leisel Meminger, much like noting an interesting exchange between strangers on an empty street, catch his eye as he passes through the lives and deaths of those around her. Later, when the war is over, he finds her story, by way of journal, in the rubble that was once her neighborhood and pieces together for himself, and us, the circumstances that surrounded those few isolated events that intrigued and gave him pause through the years. Leisel gives Death the gift of a glimpse into one human soul and it’s ability to choose right despite the consequences, and love for others despite loss, grief, and confusion that came with the hatred and propaganda of the time; a soul and it’s sacrifices, it’s compromises, and it’s eventual survival in a time and place in history where many looked the other way in order to survive, giving context and understanding of the human condition to an outsider looking in.

According to this book, a mere ten percent of the German population was against Hitler and his plan to uproot the Jewish people for greater economic good and build themselves to a place of world domination. At the time, German businesses were failing and it was difficult for people to survive. Competition and feeding one’s family led to the continued support of the Nazi party. Even after things got out of control and “removal” quickly became “extermination,” ninety percent did nothing to aid, even when they saw the abused victims paraded down their own streets forced on the death march to concentration camps that would seal their fates.

In the end, it is many years until Death crosses paths again with our heroine. And when it’s time to carry her over, he expresses how much her life has meant to him and hopes to convey some meaning and reassurance as he guides her to the next life.

I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn’t already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race-that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant. But none of those things, however, came out of my mouth. All I was able to do was turn to Liesel Meminger and tell her the only truth I truly know……I am haunted by humans.

Like Death, I too am haunted by humans. Everyday I am bombarded by news of common cruelty and the mistreatment of others. The history books are full of the embarrassments of the basic disregard for human life, and we are, I am certain, currently adding our own disgraces as time marches on. And yet, despite the bleakness that often makes up the muck that are the deeds of many, there is still the ten percent. If ten percent can hold us up and keep the world spinning with empathy, integrity, and basic human kindness, then maybe all is not lost….and in the end, I must consider, when Death comes for me, I wonder, which percentage will I be a part of, the ninety, or the ten?

2012, Authors, Book Thoughts, Books, Jenny Dalton, Markus Zusak, The Book Thief book thief, Jenny Dalton, Markus Zusak

I haven’t been buying a lot of “actual” books lately. With the availability of digital books, and with the ability to have them instantly “in your possession” when the mood strikes you, buying a physical book has become less common. I certainly don’t buy books at bookstores, hahahahahaha!!  Who does that anymore? It’s like I said almost two years ago on Twitter:

So between books, I found myself at Costco, browsing the books. Costco actually does a good job at picking its book inventory, they always have 5-7 books that are of interest to me. I was with Jenny, who as I have mentioned before helps me take things less seriously, helps me enjoy life, and somehow steers me in a direction where I’m bound to bump into something interesting. I’ll admit, I judge a book by its cover quite often and this book caught my attention. A boat, a silhouette, and the New York skyline of long ago. And the title, “Only Time Will Tell”. I was in a relaxed mood, and I felt like it was time to dive into A STORY. A real story, rich with characters and settings and page-turning narratives. After a quick check of the important aspects of the book, which in my opinion are:

1. Who the author is.
2. The opening paragraph.
3. A random paragraph from the middle of the book.
4. The length of the book, usually to match the estimated time of expected interest.
5. Context of the story.
6. What people say about the book.

The book passed in all areas except number 6. Curiously, not a single quote was about the book itself, but about the author, Jeffrey Archer, who I hadn’t read before but was familiar with. Now, when all the accolades within the book make no mention of the book, that is usually a sign that the book underachieved and that the publishing company hopes to sell copies based on the merit of the author, not on the merit of the story. Despite this glaringly obvious sign that such was the case, I purchased the book. Although I put it down twice before I reached the checkout but finally made the decision after Jenny told me the actualy price was much lower than what the back of the book said. So, for roughly $5 I bought an actual, physical, real-life book, with paper and a spine and everything. I didn’t know at the time what I had gotten myself into.

The book was marvelous, and reminded me at times of Tobias Wolff’s “Old School”, but on a much grander scale. MUCH grander scale. As it turns out, I had unwittingly picked out a book that would was the first of a five-book story that would span roughly one hundred years. It covers the life of Harry Clifton, born into a tricky situation that quickly becomes uncommingly and mesmirizingly more tricky with each turn of the page.

The more I read, the more I was presented with great writing, crisp and clear without wasted sentences or tangential sections. Everything is so neatly packaged that turning the page became an almost subconscious act, keeping pace with the characters and matching the pace of the story and the pace of the writing as if it all came out of Archer at once.  But then it was never too fast, never too slow, everything being presented in perfect order, and even the waiting and anticipation so thoughtfully spaced as to catch the reader not just off guard, but off guard at the perfect time.  There’s a difference, trust me.

I’ve never been good at talking about stories. Which is why I hardly ever do, despite this being a blog about literature. Even with movies, I can’t tell somebody what a movie was about, but I sure can go on and on about what the movie meant to me, what feelings were conveyed, and oh yea, it had something to do with a spaceship having trouble in space, or about a guy whose Dad died and he meets this girl. Yea, that’s the story and the story had depth and all that and most people, when asked “What was the movie about”, can start at the start and finish at the end, and do a great job of summarizing what the movie was about. I’m terrible at that.

I watch movies and I read books similar to how I listen to conversations. And this is something of a pet peeve of Jenny’s.  I listen, but I listen to find the meaning. Contrary to what she sometimes thinks, I understand what she says, and I’m listening to what she’s saying, but what I’m really looking for is what she means. Deep down I’m trying to discover why she’s telling me the story, what is the motivation behind it, and what response she is looking for. Not that she isn’t a great communicator, she is, and not that I always try to placate, because I don’t. Great communication is something that we’ve had from day one. But every person has their own way of saying what they mean, few people come right out and say it, at least the important things, in a way that is without metaphor, or hidden within context that masks the core message. And that paragraph, readers, is a giant tangent. Bottom line is I’m horrible at summarizing stories, but I can analyze the motivation of the person telling it all night long. Jenny might say, “I’m not so sure about living in Pleasant Grove.” Simple enough statement, right? But what were the thoughts behind it? Did something specific happen to make her think that? Is she wanting to improve what she has here? Is she wanting to move altogether? Is this a loose reference to marriage, and the idea of relocation? Is she a spy and has suddenly been discovered? Witness protection program? Knowledge of an impending flood? Can she see the future and had a vision of a string of burglaries? I mean really, her statement could MEAN ANYTHING!

(Catching breath) So, the author, Jeffrey Archer, is pretty incredible. I’m surprised I haven’t read anything of his before. Check out his Wiki page. He knows what he’s talking about. He’s an amazing storyteller.

Lucky for me that once I was far enough into the book I happened upon unexpected news, that this was the first installment of a five-part series. The next book is being published right now and available next month. I can’t wait to find out how the heck Harry Clifton, now an adult, heading into WWII, comes to America and due to unforeseen and miraculous events, choses to take on the name of a dead man, and unselfishly allows reports of his death to spread across the Atlantic to England and collection of people that have become extremely familiar to the reader, with huge implications of his death affecting them all in very different ways.

It’s a great book, a fantastic story, and it has just begun. Highly recommended to all. I’d tell you more about it, but I’m not so good at that.

2012, Book Thoughts, Brian Utley, Jeffrey Archer, Only Time Will Tell Amazon, Brian Utley, Costco, Jeffrey Archer, Jenny Dalton

Well it would have to be.  Right?  There are plenty of stories about the history of life, history of civilizations, history of the earth.  Some more accurate than others…  But the story of the creation of The Universe would need to be told by someone who was there for it.  And who could be there before they themselves were created? (see: Paradox)
Few people would be talented enough or have the necessary understanding of the universe and its laws to attempt that story.  But one of them is Alan Lightman, physicist and best-selling novelist.  Now a professor at MIT where he teaches physics, his first love, and writing, his second.  Among my favorite authors, Lightman can entwine whimsical physics and mind-broadening narratives like no other writer today.

There are many things that have brought me a sense of awe.  Watching my first child being born, standing in front of Michelangelo’s David, watching the sun rise on Lake Como from a train window, the first time I saw a Major League Baseball field, surfing dawn patrol with the sea otters and dolphins off Capitola, reading Einstein’s Dreams….  More about Einstein’s Dreams later.  This is about Mr g. the guy (or The Guy) who was there before it all.  And this is about Lightman, who is an author that enables awe and who I’ll describe like this:

Take Brian Greene’s The Elegant Universe.  Then put it away.  Then buy the Cliffs Notes. Because honestly, if you understood it, or say you did, I’d nod my head and later that evening chuckle a little to myself at your expense as I turn out the light.  Because you can’t…. so don’t.  So, take the abridged version of that, add a tablespoon of Horton Hears A Who, two cups of Steinbeck, three ounces of that crazy-ass science teacher from jr. high, and if you have the means, Richard Feynman as a 13 y/o.  Throw it all together and you’d have Lightman’s A Sense of The Mysterious.  An approachable, understandable, and engaging collection of essays about physics (the ubiquitous and oft misunderstood quantum version as well) and the discoveries of everything awesome.  If The Elegant Universe is a barefoot trek with no food through the Sahara, A Sense of The Mysterious is a limosine ride to a hillside ristorante in Tuscany.

So if quantum physics is what you’re after, and you’re smart enough to say you didn’t understand The Elegant Universe, start with A Sense of The Mysterious.  Once your done, see it all in action.  Theories are great, but that’s all they are.  Einstein’s Dreams is a book that puts theories of time and space into action, into stories that you and I can wrap our heads around.  Great books are often hailed as “page-turners”.  Not Einstein’s Dreams.  Einstein’s Dreams is great because the last thing you want to do is get to the last page.  You don’t want to turn the page, you want to reread each page over and over.  You want to read a page and put the book down, look up at the ceiling with a euphoric smile and ask your brain to dissect what you have just read by asking the daydream-inducing question of “what if?”  What if there was a center of time, a place you could go where time stopped, time moving slower the closer you get and with that in mind would you ever get there?  What if time was circular with no end and no beginning with no knowledge of your repeating existence?  What if time could be captured and relived at will, and on and on, each story answering a sliver of “what if” while at the same time creating the curiousity in you to create your own “what if’s” with your imagination.  When someone asks you if you liked the book, imagine answering with a smile fit for a knowing shaaman and the response, “I couldn’t stop putting it down”.

“Some say it is best not to go near the center of time. Life is a vessel of sadness, but is noble to live life and without time there is no life. Others disagree. They would rather have an eternity of contentment, even if that eternity were fixed and frozen, like a butterfly mounted in a case.”
― Alan Lightman, Einstein’s Dreams

a selection of quotes from Einstein’s Dreams here.

With that in mind, I discovered Lightman had slipped one past me.  A new book.  A history of the universe, a novel.  Written by mr. g. himself, who existed before time and space, who existed only in the void.  And one day he was bored.  So he created a universe.  Then another and another.  Then he grew more curious and created more things, he created laws.  Then they failed and he created more universes and more laws until he got them right.  Or so he thought.

The stories we have now of The Universe suddenly became silly and minimalist.  Most stories of the Universe and our place in it start with the creation of the Universe, then the creation of Earth, then life, then the inevitable destruction of Earth and then it stops.  In some cases it continues and The Universe just… peeters out.  Being a great storyteller, Lightman has a grander scope.  Being a great theoretical physicist, he does it with reality-checking wonder and awe.  His version of The Universe doesn’t feature Earth or mankind as the subject with the leading role.  I wouldn’t even say Earth, or our existence, would warrant a cameo label.  He presents perspective.

There is something happening that is much bigger than we’re informed of.  Something much more profound and awe-inspiring than we’re capable of comprehending.  We’ve had Carl Sagan and we still have Hubble.  We have the Bible and we’ve had Einstein.  We have quantum physics with worm holes and Entanglement and string theory and multiple dimensions where versions of us are making an infinite number of different decisions with different outcomes.  But we also have sunrises and marble statues and crying babies.  And these all have their special place in The Cosmos.  And somehow, with one eye on infinity and another on now, Lightman is able to give our story here on earth and here in our homes meaning and depth and profundity by unveiling to us how fleeting our time is here.  But that’s not the book’s purpose, it’s merely a byproduct.  How someone could make me feel so large and important by showing me just how small and insignificant I am is beyond me.  But Lightman does it.  And he does it with wit and humor and comprehensible theoretical physics and he did it by putting me in my place, showing me where I am, where I came from, and inevitably where I’ll go.  And that story, when the final word is written about us all, will also be awe-inspring.

What has been your most awe-inspiring moment?

2012, Book Thoughts, Brian Utley

Every time someone finds out that Stephen King is my favorite author, I somehow always feel the need to begin with, “but, in my defense…..” Regardless, I should probably clarify something right away; my top three favorite books were not written by Stephen King, in fact, if I had to make a list, I’m not sure he would even make the top ten.  That said, let me tell you why he is, number one, my all time favorite writer, and that number two, meeting him and getting his autograph is on my bucket list, and three, if writers had groupies, I would definitely follow him around on tour  in hopes that he would throw a bookmark or something at me from on stage.

As a lover of most things written, I too have a need to better myself through the reading of great classic works of literature.  I feel an obligation to tick down the classics list and mark them as read on my Goodreads account.  But, I’m gonna be honest with you, sometimes a read like that can be tough to take in.  It doesn’t always get me excited to find the social commentary or hidden messages written between the lines. These days, as I read on my own and not as a student, although I still find it necessary to better myself through the books I choose, sometimes I just….don’t.  And in my old age, so help me, it gets exhausting even considering bettering myself, let alone doing it. The last few reads have been pretty serious stuff.  Stuff I needed to analyze and make applicable to my life. It’s akin to knowing I should be watching that film that won all the awards on like the mass genocide of a nation, but instead I just really feel like watching Dumb and Dumber.  And don’t get me wrong, the last few reads were a real treat, but this time I just wanted to read something I knew I would enjoy, without the need to find some meaning in the subtext.  So I turned to my old friend Stephen, who just came out with a new book called, 11/22/63, a novel that questions the morality and dangers of trying to change history and what life would be like if JFK had never been assassinated.

Honestly, it wasn’t my most favorite of his books, but I still very much enjoyed it and read it in only a few sittings (it’s almost 900 pages). The thing about Mr. King is not only does he have the most crazy awesome imagination, but he is seriously the most talented writer. The way he weaves a story and his ability to keep you turning the pages is unlike any other.  I mean this guy writes 800+ page books and I just keep on reading. To me, he is the epitome of what it means to be a true story teller. My only beef with him is his hardbacks are so heavy I can’t take them in the bath with me.

In a nutshell, and in his own words, I like King because “sometimes a cigar is just a smoke and a story’s just a story.” At the end of the day, most of the time, I just want to be entertained, and that’s what he does for me.  So if its King for me, or Twilight or whatever for you, I say, whatever floats your boat. For heavens sake, I’ll even listen to pop music here and there if it makes me want to tap my feet.  Because in the end, if it’s good, it’s good. Who am I to judge?

Author’s Note**** A few of my favorites that you might want to check out are, in no particular order: The Stand, Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption, (which is included in the book Different Seasons along with other great novellas like Apt Pupil and The Body((movie adaption, Stand by Me)) Just After Sunset, (particularly the novella, The Gingerbread Girl), Needful Things, It, On Writing, Salems Lot, The Shining, and most recently, Under The Dome.  Seriously though, there’s not a story of his I haven’t enjoyed.

Book Thoughts 11/22/63, Jenny Dalton, Stephen King

I remember sitting in classrooms through the years and often times feeling completely in the dark, not having a clue as to what the professor was going on about. One time in particular is burned in my memory. I was taking a class where an entire lecture centered around one word: misogynist. Well, I had no idea what that word meant, (and in my defense it was a class focused on medieval poetry, which, in my mind, is kind of a cruel and inhumane prerequisite. Furthermore, in my humble opinion the only tolerable poetry is the kind set to music, preferably with a drum solo somewhere in there, thank you), and I spent the entire class trying to figure out what in the world this guy was yammering on about, while everyone else seemingly understood with the noddings of the heads and of course that one kid in class who just has to have a ridiculously insightful comment, which I didn’t latch onto as well, which further drove home my ineptitude.  So I sat there in silence, too embarrassed to raise my hand and ask the meaning, wondering if I was completely alone in my academic short comings.

I’d like to say this feeling of inadequacy in comparison with those around me has faded since my younger days, but alas, it is not so.  A good example of this would be my first, and every year after, mothering stint I’ve been involved in. At first, I thought I might collapse under the weight of the pressure.  With the having of a child, a feeling of unavoidable guilt quickly becomes a mainstay feature in the hollows of your soul. Guilt about things I wasn’t doing right, wasn’t doing at all, or was going to do in the future that would inevitable be the ruin of my offspring, and subsequently probably be the downfall of a nation at some point.  I was getting about 1.5 hours of consecutive sleep a day, I was frazzled, rarely showered, and that baby WOULD JUST NOT STOP CRYING! I could do nothing to soothe her and because all the other young mothers around me seemed to have everything together, I was convinced, once again, that I was the one falling short. And that just made it worse.  It wasn’t until years later, when I started really talking to my close friends, that stories of the pressure felt, depression, inadequacy, and the feeling that they alone were the ones not keeping up, not daring to admit they were struggling for fear of appearing weak, began to emerge.  And I couldn’t help but wonder, if we had all just admitted years before that our problems and fears existed, would we have been comforted? Would we have been shored up knowing we were not alone, that we were in good company in our inadequacies?

The memory of those times and many others through my life came flooding back while reading Jeffery Eugenides novel, The Marriage Plot.  The book follows the lives of three college graduates, immersed in a love triangle as they embark into the world trying to find themselves and the path they are destined for as they deal with all sorts of unexpected and most times ill prepared for events of love, mental illness, friendship, marriage, and religion.  Tolerance, understanding, acceptance and forgiveness weave through this tale as the characters find the strength to sacrifice for each other and in the end, sacrifice for themselves. I couldn’t help but wonder while reading this book, if the characters had shared their weaknesses, and trusted others with their flaws, would things have turned out differently? Would their lives have met less resistance and despair with the relief and support that can come with voicing our fears and our perceived shortcomings, while being honest about who we are as individuals?

I guess my thought is this: If we raise our hands and admit that we really don’t know everything, that we are not perfect, that we are struggling and we aren’t quite sure if the decisions we make and have made are the right ones, will it be worth it, if only maybe for that one other person in the world who sighs and is relieved that they are not the only one? Well, I’d like to think so.

2012, Book Thoughts, Jenny Dalton Jeffrey Eugenides, Jenny Dalton, The Marriage Plot